


The Watson Waltz

by the_east_wind_my_darling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_east_wind_my_darling/pseuds/the_east_wind_my_darling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day, Sherlock Holmes played on his violin for the mystery man that lived in the flat above him. And every day, John Watson listened to the sweet sound of the enigma in the flat below him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Watson Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is just a bit of fluff that I wrote. Please feel free to leave constructive criticism and kind comments! Thanks!

Sometimes John felt as though he understood the enigmatic man who lived in the flat below better than he understood himself. Since moving in a month ago, he had heard concertos and quartets, sonatas and symphonies, and the occasional waltz. He heard slow songs that seemed to pull every note, every sound from the violin, and fast songs that were choppy and hasty. 

Tonight, however, a different sort of sound emerged from the wooden floors beneath his feet. An intricate series of notes, repeated over and over, varying only slightly from time to time. Composing, John thought, and it seems as though he won’t be done for a while. The man beneath John’s feet seemed to compose in times of deep distress. The notes grew more and more complex the farther the man sank into his emotional turmoil, gaining speed and irregularity that made John itch with the urge to see the man’s fingers fly over the strings. The man seemed restless today, like he had an itch he couldn’t scratch. John wouldn’t be surprised if the man had struggled with addiction before; the way he seemed to radiate tension and a need for release in his songs was evidence itself. John had only caught one look at the man behind the beautiful music. He was tall and lithe, with skin so pale John was sure he could see the blue of his veins. His hair was inky black and curly, a sharp contrast to the strong cheekbones and jawline that defined the man’s face. And his eyes- John couldn’t even pick a color. 

John toed off his shoes and hung his jacket up, dropping his book bag on his desk. He made his way to the kitchen and started brewing himself a cup of tea. The man seemed to have moved onto the next eight bars of his composition, and John mindlessly started tapping out the rhythm with his fingers. A waltz, if John remembered correctly. His mind wandered to slow dances with girls in creamy dresses and satin sashes, hair done up in curls and lips painted red. One, two, three, One, two, three, One, two, three. John’s leg twinged, reminding him that his days of dancing with gorgeous guys and gals were long over, and certainly weren’t coming back. The kettle whistled, and John poured himself his tea before reaching for his cane and limping to the small bed in the corner. He set down his tea and settled on the lumpy mattress, smoothing the sheets to military precision. He laid back, allowing his mind to drift as the man’s melodies soothed him. 

———

Sherlock paused briefly in his composition to listen to the sounds of the man upstairs taking off his shoes and making his tea before continuing. The man above him, who had moved in exactly 27 days ago, was the source of the emotional tornado that was wreaking havoc inside of him. A military doctor sent back home due to injury, who had acquired a psychosomatic limp and a strong taste for tea, a mystery man to remain nameless, had captured Sherlock’s attention like no one else could. And he had never even properly met the man. Sherlock only had one glimpse of the man to put a face to the enigma. Short, yet strong, the man had eyes bluer than the ocean. He looked as though he wasn’t one to appreciate things as trivial and dull as classical music. But everyday after work, the doctor would make himself tea and settle on his bed, listening to the notes Sherlock coaxed from his violin. 

Sherlock had quickly discovered that the man above seemed to listen most intently to songs that you could dance to; waltzes being his favorite. Sherlock liked to imagine that they made him nostalgic for the days when he could dance. The man also required a fast tempo and musical variety; he wasn’t one to sit and listen for hours to the overplayed genius of Mozart or Bach. Today the man in the flat above sounded frustrated and tired. That’s why Sherlock was composing tonight. He was bored- so bored, so bored- and he couldn’t stand to play something old. So he had picked up his trusty violin. Not long into his composition, however, his thoughts turned to the paradox that resided above him. He found himself falling into a fast-paced waltz, his notes short and rapid but well-thought out and beautiful. Soon the song was well into its twelfth bar, his ideas and inspiration a whirlwind of contrasting thoughts. Sharp and repetitive, like soldiers marching, soft and homely, like jumpers and tea, a slight variation, like a man that Sherlock couldn’t get out of his mind. 

———

The mystery below John kept playing well into the night. The urge to follow the tempo, the one, two, three, one, two, three only grew stronger and stronger with each passing note. Finally, John sat up and planted his feet on the floor. Closing his eyes, he let his arms drift up to lead his imaginary partner. He willed the pain in his leg to shut up for just a minute, knowing he would regret this in the morning. He counted with the violin- Two, three, and, go. John gave himself over to the rise and fall of the melody, moving his feet steadily to the tempo. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three. John had no idea how long he waltzed in his flat, deftly avoiding the desk and chair, the kitchen table, the long-cold tea kettle. The pain in his leg grew dimmer and dimmer, his body completely tuned to the next note to come pouring forth from the mysterious man and his magical violin.

The song ended abruptly. One moment, John was waltzing around his nightstand, and the next he was stopped, halted on the off-beat, the pain in his leg returning in one fast jolt that left him off balance. Time seemed to slow down as he fell, the world slowly turning and blurring as he felt his body make contact with the cold, hard floorboards. The breath was knocked out of John, the pain hitting all at once, his eyes widening as he lay on his back, stranded, the music gone with nothing left to guide him. He closed his eyes as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

———

Sherlock had reached a kind of momentum where he no longer had to think and replay bars over and over again, he was just playing, and playing, and playing. The melody carried him along as he improvised, and added more variations before returning to the original theme. Eventually he heard a slight creaking of the floorboards up above his head- he didn’t dare stop playing, of course- but listening more closely, he heard a distinct pattern of footfalls, following the tempo of his music. Sherlock broke into a wide grin as he realized the soldier above him had begun to waltz. Sherlock played faster, harder, concentrating on the feeling of joy he felt when the doctor had moved in, the first time he stopped to listen to Sherlock, the way the blue of his eyes seemed endless, the anticipation each day as he waited for the man to get home from work, how much Sherlock wanted to know him, to listen to his stories, to love him-

Sherlock dropped his bow. He was getting too far ahead of himself. He didn’t even know the man’s name, let alone if he was even interested in men, interested in Sherlock- His train of thought was cut off again by a loud thud above him. Sherlock’s head shot up at the noise. What was that? It couldn’t be- no, no, what if the doctor had fallen? What if he had hurt himself? Before Sherlock could even recognize what he was doing, he had flung open the door to his flat and hurtled up the rickety staircase to the flat above, pounding on the door, “Doctor, doctor, tell me you’re alright! Stay right where you are, don’t move, don’t move…” Sherlock dug in his pockets for his breaking-and-entering kit that he always had on him. He pulled out his tools and made quick work of the door, bursting into the room and kneeling next to the mystery man he had grown to adore. “You didn’t break anything… Here, let me help you up.” Sherlock extended a hand to the man on the ground. John took it with a sigh and a wince as he pulled himself into a sitting position. “I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. What’s your name?” Sherlock, reassured that his new friend was okay, replied, “Sherlock Holmes,” with a wink. “And you?” “John Watson.” “More than just that, though, surely? A doctor in the war, yes? Invalided out of Afghanistan or Iraq, with a psychosomatic limp?” “How did you know all of that?” “You have steady hands, surgeon hands, and enough medical knowledge to understand that you hadn’t broken anything, despite all the pain you were in. No tan above the wrists, so not on holiday, making you a soldier in either Afghanistan or Iraq. Your shoulder is stiff, and your limp is psychosomatic because you forget about it sometimes when you stand to make tea.” “That was- incredible!” John answered with a grin. “Do you really think so?” Sherlock said shyly. “Absolutely brilliant. Why, what do people normally say?” “Piss off,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “Well, I think its absolutely fantastic- just like your violin skills. Why did you stop?” “I- I noticed you were dancing along, and I guess I just got- a little thrown off by it. But- your leg didn’t hurt you whilst you were dancing, did it?” John shook his head no, in awe of Sherlock’s deductions. “Well then, if you are amenable, what do you say we waltz?” Sherlock asked as he rose gracefully to his feet and offered John a hand. “Can’t say no to a dance with a beautiful man, I suppose,” John replied cheekily, giving Sherlock a smile. “Go ahead, impress me, Sherlock.” Sherlock pressed a button on his mobile and the sounds of the recently composed waltz floated through the speakers. John swayed at the sound of the magnificent music so close to him. Sherlock moved one hand to John’s back, a strong point against his soft jumper, pressing him close to Sherlock. Sherlock began to lead John around the small flat, his timing impeccable as he followed the music. 

John didn’t know how long they had danced for. His leg had long since stopped bothering him, and he was pressed up against Sherlock’s chest, his head resting on his shoulder. Sherlock was still leading them, but his movements were slower, and seemed to sway them more than actually move them gracefully around the room. His chin rested on John’s head, his lips just brushing the blond hairs just barely longer than the regulation army buzz cut. John sighed against Sherlock, allowing himself to lean a bit more heavily on the surprisingly strong man. Sherlock smiled. “John,” he whispered tentatively. “Mmmm,” John replied, a bit incoherently. “I’m really glad you moved into the flat above mine.” With this, Sherlock lifted John’s chin with gentle fingertips, staring into the deep blue irises. He moved hesitantly forward, waiting to see how John would react, but John reached for Sherlock’s curly locks and closed his eyes as he brought their lips together. It was a soft, chaste kiss, and Sherlock thought it felt nicer than a good case, better than a well-written waltz. John gently pulled them apart and looked into Sherlock’s eyes that he could never quite put a name to. “Me too, Sherlock. Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is just a bit of fluff that I wrote. Please feel free to leave constructive criticism and kind comments! Thanks!


End file.
